


Dear Agony

by BWaves



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depression, M/M, Sadstuck, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BWaves/pseuds/BWaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jake cries a little part of you wants to die and sometimes it does, and you're thinking about it now. You're thinking about Jake sobbing at the altar you helped decorate yesterday and he's sitting in the church alone and you're so awful. How could you do that to him?</p><p>How could you stand up the man you love on your wedding day?<br/>---<br/>Now with alternate, happy, ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece for Breath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the sad ending, if you want the version where no one dies, go to chapter two!

Today is the day. Today is the day it's all supposed to get better, and you're supposed to get happy and everything is supposed to change but it's not. No amount of planning and getting your mind off of everything else has been able to get rid of that twisted feeling in your stomach and your head and you can't speak, you haven't been able to speak and Jake says it's just stress but he doesn't get it, he never ever got it.

He never will, and you know that, but fuck you, you love him. You love him and you don't deserve him and it all feels like it's caving in every time you look at the calendar, look at the time.

You're trapping him today and he's so. He's so stupid; he said yes. When you dropped down on one knee and asked him to marry you he fucking said yes. And you thought it would fix you. You thought you'd be better by now, but you aren't, it all feels so much worse and it feels like there are bugs crawling under your skin and through your head and it's awful.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for loving him and trapping him, and you feel like you're forcing him into this, like he's only doing this because he thinks it will fix you just like you think it will fix you.

It's four thirty in the afternoon. It's Thursday, it is November, and you're getting married today.

Except you aren't. Because you were supposed to be at the church hours ago and nothing you tell yourself has been able to convince you to get out of bed, or to leave your apartment or to wipe your face clean and put on your rental tux and just go out and marry the man you love.

Your phone has been ringing all day, non stop and you check it every time. It's Roxy, Jane, then Jake and then Dave, in that order repeating over and over again. Once or twice John has popped up, a few times it had been Rose, but those four are the ones leaving the most messages that you don't dare to try and listen to for fear of hearing tears.

You can't stand to hear Jake cry.

When Jake cries a little part of you wants to die and sometimes it does, and you're thinking about it now. You're thinking about Jake sobbing at the altar you helped decorate yesterday and he's sitting in the church alone and you're so awful. How could you do that to him?

How could you stand up the man you love on your wedding day?

You finally move. You sit up in your bed and rub your cheeks dry. You put your feet on the chilly carpet and stand. You pick up your phone and call Jake.

He answers and he's crying, he's frantic, he's begging you to tell him why you haven't answered the phone, where are you, are you okay, and he apologizes.

He apologizes to you. He says it like it’s his fault and you’re barely able to make out the laundry list of things he is sorry for through his sobs and you feel like curling up in a ball and dying as he apologizes for ‘feeling like I’m trapping you in a relationship you don’t want to be in’ and ‘acting like I can fix you just by existing’.

He starts rattling off promises to help you, to get you to some doctor, or a psychologist or whoever it is that deals with all that mental stuff, he says that you don’t have to stay with him if you don’t want to but he is determined to help you, whether the engagement stands or not.

He’s halfway through telling you he’s on his way home when you hang up the phone.

You drop it as you let yourself fall to your knees, you curl up and hold your head because it’s all so fucked up, it was all going to get better and you hit a slump, you hit a low the day of your wedding and you made Jake cry and you keep fucking it up, you keep fucking up everything.

Of course there are parts of you that recognize that this isn’t your fault. It isn’t your fault that you’re fucked up, it’s not your fault you’re depressed or whatever it is you think you have, it’s not your fault.

You hate that part. You hate the rational part of you that knows you are innocent, because that part is right and the part of you that is self-blaming and screaming at you is wrong but it’s so fucking powerful, it takes over. You know who is right, but it’s so hard to listen to the right part when the wrong part is so much more powerful.

You want to get rid of the wrong part, you have to because if you keep this up for much longer you’re sure you’ll die, someone will kill you or you’ll kill yourself or. Or. Fuck.

The first real noise you’ve made all day leaves you as a harsh sob, the thought of the relief flooding you and forcing you to think thoughts, terrible thoughts you shouldn’t think, but it’s just. It’s so easy. It would be so easy. Jake has guns. Sure he keeps most of them locked up. But there’s one, that one pistol he keeps out, in case something happens, if there’s a robber or a zombie apocalypse or whatever the litany of reasons was.

The shape of it is burned into your mind as you fight yourself over this, you drag yourself to your feet and look between the bed and the door and the bed and the door and the bathroom and the bed and the door and they lock there. The door out of the bedroom. You could do it in the bathroom. In the bathtub, leave less of a mess behind. No one would have to scrub your blood off the carpets.

You almost heave at the thought, but a step is taken towards the door. It’s in the kitchen, you remember. It is in the kitchen on top of… On top of the refrigerator. On the left side, just near the front, just near enough to reach.

Another step toward the door. Jake is almost home. You imagine him finding you like that. You imagine him finding you in a puddle of your own blood and you take a step back and you’re tearing yourself up on the inside and you finally leave the bedroom. You imagine Jake happy with someone else. Happy with someone who isn’t broken, and fucked up and manipulative.

The pistol is a lot heavier than you originally anticipated, and it weighs down your hand in a way that sends a multitude of emotions up your spine. None strong enough to sway your decision.

You want to be free.

The ceramic of the tub is colder than you remember but you sit down in it despite the chill that runs up your spine. You press the barrel to your forehead, press on the trigger but not enough, it’s not enough to fire and you pull it away, squeezing the handle.

You look down at your shirt. Jake’s shirt. It’s one of Jake’s shirts. It’s drenched in tears and you start to think about him again. You take a shaking breath, and the barrel returns to your forehead. Your phone buzzes in the other room and you squeeze your eyes shut. Should you leave a note? Is it too late?

You get to your feet again, setting the pistol on the edge of the tub. You stumble into the bedroom again and go straight for the laptop on the floor next to Jake’s side of the bed.  
It takes a moment to boot up but once it does you open up the text program and start to type, erase it, type, erase, type, erase, nothing seems right, none of the words seem right.

You take a deep breath, you swallow, you start again.

_I’m sorry._

That’s a good start, you decide, and your fingers hover for another moment.

_You’re free._

You’re honestly not sure if that part is for you or Jake.

You set the computer back on the floor, leave it open. You go back to the bathroom and watch your hands shake as you put yourself back in the tub. You lean against the wall, and take hold of the pistol again, grip it tightly to your chest and breath a few heavy breaths, press the weapon to your forehead and take a deep breath.

The last thing you hear is Jake call your name before it all goes black.


	2. Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a happy ending for my friend Aeacus (who is Aeacus here, and aeacustero on tumblr).

Today is the day. Today is the day it's all supposed to get better, and you're supposed to get happy and everything is supposed to change but it's not. No amount of planning and getting your mind off of everything else has been able to get rid of that twisted feeling in your stomach and your head and you can't speak, you haven't been able to speak and Jake says it's just stress but he doesn't get it, he never ever got it.

He never will, and you know that, but fuck you, you love him. You love him and you don't deserve him and it all feels like it's caving in every time you look at the calendar, look at the time.

You're trapping him today and he's so. He's so stupid; he said yes. When you dropped down on one knee and asked him to marry you he fucking said yes. And you thought it would fix you. You thought you'd be better by now, but you aren't, it all feels so much worse and it feels like there are bugs crawling under your skin and through your head and it's awful.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for loving him and trapping him, and you feel like you're forcing him into this, like he's only doing this because he thinks it will fix you just like you think it will fix you.

It's four thirty in the afternoon. It's Thursday, it is November, and you're getting married today.

Except you aren't. Because you were supposed to be at the church hours ago and nothing you tell yourself has been able to convince you to get out of bed, or to leave your apartment or to wipe your face clean and put on your rental tux and just go out and marry the man you love.

Your phone has been ringing all day, non stop and you check it every time. It's Roxy, Jane, then Jake and then Dave, in that order repeating over and over again. Once or twice John has popped up, a few times it had been Rose, but those four are the ones leaving the most messages that you don't dare to try and listen to for fear of hearing tears.

You can't stand to hear Jake cry.

When Jake cries a little part of you wants to die and sometimes it does, and you're thinking about it now. You're thinking about Jake sobbing at the altar you helped decorate yesterday and he's sitting in the church alone and you're so awful. How could you do that to him?

How could you stand up the man you love on your wedding day?

You finally move. You sit up in your bed and rub your cheeks dry. You put your feet on the chilly carpet and stand. You pick up your phone and call Jake.

He answers and he's crying, he's frantic, he's begging you to tell him why you haven't answered the phone, where are you, are you okay, and he apologizes.

He apologizes to you. He says it like it’s his fault and you’re barely able to make out the laundry list of things he is sorry for through his sobs and you feel like curling up in a ball and dying as he apologizes for ‘feeling like I’m trapping you in a relationship you don’t want to be in’ and ‘acting like I can fix you just by existing’.

He starts rattling off promises to help you, to get you to some doctor, or a psychologist or whoever it is that deals with all that mental stuff, he says that you don’t have to stay with him if you don’t want to but he is determined to help you, whether the engagement stands or not.

He’s halfway through telling you he’s on his way home when you hang up the phone.

You drop it as you let yourself fall to your knees, you curl up and hold your head because it’s all so fucked up, it was all going to get better and you hit a slump, you hit a low the day of your wedding and you made Jake cry and you keep fucking it up, you keep fucking up everything.

Of course there are parts of you that recognize that this isn’t your fault. It isn’t your fault that you’re fucked up, it’s not your fault you’re depressed or whatever it is you think you have, it’s not your fault.

You hate that part. You hate the rational part of you that knows you are innocent, because that part is right and the part of you that is self-blaming and screaming at you is wrong but it’s so fucking powerful, it takes over. You know who is right, but it’s so hard to listen to the right part when the wrong part is so much more powerful.

You want to get rid of the wrong part, you have to because if you keep this up for much longer you’re sure you’ll die, someone will kill you or you’ll kill yourself or. Or. Fuck.

The first real noise you’ve made all day leaves you as a harsh sob, the thought of the relief flooding you and forcing you to think thoughts, terrible thoughts you shouldn’t think, but it’s just. It’s so easy. It would be so easy. Jake has guns. Sure he keeps most of them locked up. But there’s one, that one pistol he keeps out, in case something happens, if there’s a robber or a zombie apocalypse or whatever the litany of reasons was.

The shape of it is burned into your mind as you fight yourself over this, you drag yourself to your feet and look between the bed and the door and the bed and the door and the bathroom and the bed and the door and they lock there. The door out of the bedroom. You could do it in the bathroom. In the bathtub, leave less of a mess behind. No one would have to scrub your blood off the carpets.

You almost heave at the thought, but a step is taken towards the door. It’s in the kitchen, you remember. It is in the kitchen on top of… On top of the refrigerator. On the left side, just near the front, just near enough to reach.

Another step toward the door. Jake is almost home. You imagine him finding you like that. You imagine him finding you in a puddle of your own blood and you take a step back and you’re tearing yourself up on the inside and you finally leave the bedroom. You imagine Jake happy with someone else. Happy with someone who isn’t broken, and fucked up and manipulative.

The pistol is a lot heavier than you originally anticipated, and it weighs down your hand in a way that sends a multitude of emotions up your spine. None strong enough to sway your decision.

You want to be free.

The ceramic of the tub is colder than you remember but you sit down in it despite the chill that runs up your spine. You press the barrel to your forehead, press on the trigger but not enough, it’s not enough to fire and you pull it away, squeezing the handle.

You look down at your shirt. Jake’s shirt. It’s one of Jake’s shirts. It’s drenched in tears and you start to think about him again. You take a shaking breath, and the barrel returns to your forehead. Your phone buzzes in the other room and you squeeze your eyes shut. Should you leave a note? Is it too late?

You get to your feet again, setting the pistol on the edge of the tub. You stumble into the bedroom again and go straight for the laptop on the floor next to Jake’s side of the bed.  
It takes a moment to boot up but once it does you open up the text program and start to type, erase it, type, erase, type, erase, nothing seems right, none of the words seem right.

You take a deep breath, you swallow, you start again.

I’m sorry.

That’s a good start, you decide, and your fingers hover for another moment.

You’re free.

You’re honestly not sure if that part is for you or Jake.

You set the computer back on the floor, leave it open. You go back to the bathroom and watch your hands shake as you put yourself back in the tub. You lean against the wall, and take hold of the pistol again, grip it tightly to your chest and breath a few heavy breaths, press the weapon to your forehead and take a deep breath.

The sound of Jake's voice calling out your name has you freezing, your grip tightening before it loosens and the pistol falls from your grip and a loud sob tears out of your throat and he's here. He's really here and he's here in time and the pistol makes such a loud noise when it hits the tub that you don't hear Jake coming into the bathroom.

"Dirk!"

"I'm sorry!" The inside of your mouth tastes like acid and there are arms being thrown around you, and there are voices, there are so many voices all talking at once but as soon as they get into the bathroom they all die off, except for yours.

At least you think it's yours. The litany of apologies and sobs sure sounds like you.

The arms around you don't leave. They grow tighter, and you need it, you need that hold, you need him to hold you like this right now. He loosens only one arm from where they are around your shoulders, hooks it under your legs and he picks you up from the bathtub, and he holds you close to him.

Your voice has died off and you're simply a trembling mess in his arms as he carries you out of the bathroom. You hear something, a sound like someone's keys jingling and then you hear Jake say something to someone and there's some sounds and you think someone is putting the pistol away and you make a noise. Everything falls quiet again.  
You hate the quiet, you hate it because you're not looking but you can feel all the eyes on you, all of them are staring at you and you hate it and you start to fight, start to wiggle against the arms around you so you can lock yourself in the closet of the bathroom so they'll stop staring at you.

"Guys, I hate to do this but can you please..." You fight him more, going so far as to swing an arm at him, but he doesn't let go, and you hear the door to the bedroom close and it feels significantly less cramped when it's just you and him.

Jake holds you for hours. It gets dark and light again and all he does it hold you and whisper on and on that you're okay, that you're going to be okay and he's going to call the doctor right away, he just needs you to be okay and he apologizes for never noticing anything before, and for letting that damn pistol stay out and he just holds you.

He holds you until you're too tired to cry anymore. Too tired to shake or speak. He kisses your forehead and gently takes your hand, pulling the ring off of your finger and taking the ring off his own. He sets them to the side, he takes your hand and kisses the back of it, he kisses your palm and your fingers and he kisses your forehead a few more times.

When he tells you that you're going to be okay you don't believe him. He keeps you held tightly to his chest as he pulls out his phone, he makes a phone call and you listen as he makes an appointment for you. He tells you you're going to be okay.

You really want to be okay.


End file.
